


In the House In a Heartbeat

by Abraxis_Maxis



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn, first fic, i’ll change the rating when we get there, please do let me know if i’ve gotten this wrong somewhere, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxis_Maxis/pseuds/Abraxis_Maxis
Summary: When Dr. Reid is summoned to a meeting with the leader of the Guard of Priwen, he finds himself in a situation he hadn’t quite bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In complete blackness, a loud, dull, thumping accompanied by a wave of warmth. The darkness dissipates and soft rain against skin is the only remaining shred of normalcy. Quickly following is the rapturous wash of relief so intense, mortal words can hardly describe the feeling. Far slower than the former, a recognition of sound. Soft, distressed, and growing fainter is the breathing of a cast off individual; "Johnny... what've you done...?"  
Horror replaces the overwhelming sense relief; although as much as he hates himself for it, he cannot clear the feeling her blood has given him.

Jonathan bolts upright in his small twin bed. Hands extended in front of him, he stares at his arms where in his dream Mary's blood had stained. He fought back a choked sob as he runs his hands through his hair.  
Although physically crying was difficult for him now, the sorrow left behind by the dream had been profound enough to leave him scrubbing at his eyes and face in an attempt to ward tears away.  
Pulling in a few deep breaths, he set his gaze on the only living thing in the room -his plant whom he'd named Lisa- and slowly began calming down. The routine of breathing, though he no longer required the action, did well for his mind. He at times found himself breathing out of habit on his nightly walks, puffing small plumes of white into the damp air while offering to aid those around him who were in need; For a moment he pondered as to whether a denizen would ever notice if he choose to forgo breathing entirely.  
To forgo breathing... As Mary has. The fading gasps of her final moments slow and pained, the end to her life that he had caused. 

Before his guilt-riddled mind could derail the attempt at self soothing any further, an urgent knock on the office door demanded his attention. He could sense Dr. Edgar Swansea on the other side.  
Sighing, he rose from his bed -still fully clothed- and moved to his workbench which was stationed parallel.  
"Come in, Edgar."  
Jonathan's voice was a touch raspier than its usual smooth baritone due to a mixture of sleep and grief, but if Edgar noticed he didn't mention it. Closing the door behind him the administrator found where Jonathan was standing in the large space and started towards him, he seemed to be absorbed in a small pile of letters resting on a clipboard held firmly in his grasp. Edgar looked up from the array to meet Jonathan's expecting gaze;  
"Sorry to disturb your sleep my friend, but there are some... Unfortunate missives that've come to my attention. Most unfortunate of all, they concern you."  
"Me? Who sent them?"  
Jonathan's eyebrows knit together as he thought about his rounds the past several nights. 

The Docks were still embroiled in their gang wars, and the West End was as oblivious or otherwise as outwardly hostile as always. Nurse Crane and Sean Hampton did their best for their communities and Jonathan genuinely respected them for it. That said, Sean was still rather prickly about how their situation had ended, and Jonathan could hardly blame him. Perhaps that's who the letters are from? A disgruntled Mr. Hampton telling Dr. Reid his services nor his presence are neither needed nor welcome at the Night Shelter. Jonathan shook his head. No, Sean isn't the type for-

The ekon suddenly jerked his head up to look at Edgar who had just finished clearing his throat in a bid for the others attention.  
"As I was saying, Jonathan, I don't know who sent them. All I know is that they're uniformly printed and all request your presence in the place and time provided." Edgar frowns, worry clear on his face. Jonathan frowns too, although for different reason.  
"You opened them? Did you not say they were addressed to me?"  
"I said they concerned you, my friend. But yes, I did take the liberty of opening the first, while simply keeping all that looked identical thereafter. I felt the fact the sender had correctly tracked you to this location suspicious, and clearly my hypothesis was correct."  
"But Edgar, you opened my mail."  
Edgar narrows his eyes behind this thinly framed glasses; "For god sakes Jonathan I'm not going to arg-"

A loud, sturdy, thud suddenly interrupts them as their attention snaps to the source of the sound. What appears to be a sliver of metal had just soundly lodged itself in the balcony door of Jonathan's office.  
Stalking forward, Jonathan extends a hand to inspect the foreign object. He immediately found himself snatching his hand back and briefly questioning why before the pain catches up to his instincts.  
Stumbling backwards, he hisses while attempting to soothe the fire from his veins.  
"What in god's name is that?!" Jonathan manages through grit teeth. Swansea, horrified by the situation, guides the injured party to the bed. Edgar furrows his brow as he turns to look at the offending object.  
Before Jonathan can object, he quickly pushes the door and exits, closing the door swiftly behind him as to avoid any sunlight making unsavory contact with the ekon. Prying his attention away from his stinging hand, Jonathan sees the door shutter, and, after a few muffled grunts of effort from the administrator, watches as the spike is pulled free. Edgar, re-entering as quickly as he exited, produces a stout crossbow bolt from his hand. Jonathan frowns at it attempting to ascertain how it'd managed to harm him.  
"I wasn't so clumsy as to cut myself, so then how was I affected so quickly?"

Before he could think to stop him, Edgar swipes his index finger along the offending metal. He purses his lips in anticipation of pain but is left unscathed. He holds his hand to his nose quickly inhaling before moving it closer to his eyes. He squints at the residue, face scrunched in contemplation.  
Jonathan watches hawkishly and mildly irritated by Edgar's brashness.  
"That was reckless. You had no idea what caused my reaction. You could've been harmed too."  
"Ah, but I had a theory! One that seems to be correct, if I do say so myself." Jonathan doesn't respond, leaving Edgar to continue; "You see, on first contact, the substance didn't enter broken skin and yet your reaction was still instantaneous. That, compounded with the fact there's no visible damage to the object itself shows the substance was neither caustic, nor toxic." Now rubbing his index finger against his thumb, Edgar held out his hand for Jonathan to inspect, "I concluded that our mystery assailant deployed holy oil to harmful effect."

Jonathan waves away Edgar's hand. He was familiar with the effects holy symbols had on him. Even in his first encounter with a then unknown Dr.Swansea the man had pulled a cross on him.  
"I accept your explanation but why oil? I understand the use of holy water of course, but I must admit weaponized oil is new to me." The pain, at this point, had totally subsided leaving behind little else but faint static.  
"If I had to wager a guess, I'd say it's because oil has longer staying power when applied to weaponry."  
Swansea brings his hand to his chin, resting it there thoughtfully.  
"Those Priwen are a resourceful lot, I'll give them that much."  
Jonathan's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. "The Guard? You think this was a direct attack from Priwen?"  
"Well they wouldn't be so bold as to attack us outright. So a warning here, a threatening reminder there-I'm sure they think they're being very clever." 

Jonathan's mouth formed into a sort of half grimace. Whether it was from the lingering remnants of pain or from the thought of the Guard of Priwen trouncing about the hospital grounds disturbing the patients, even he would likely have difficulty discerning.  
"Well, do you think they've filled their quota for the day then?" Edgar asked. Jonathan huffed through his nose. The grimace trading places for a wry smirk.  
"One should certainly hope, yes? Now Edgar, if you don't mind I'd very much like to review those letters."  
"Oh dear me I'd nearly forgotten in all the excitement. Here you are." The director hands the resident hematologist the collection. The envelopes were all matte black paper sealed with undetailed red wax. The seal of the initial letter had been already broken, of course. He picked up the envelope resting on top of the pile (presumably the most recent to arrive) and turned it in his hands before opening it. Within, a white letter written in standard black ink;

"Dr.Reid

I cannot help but take your silence as rejection of my previous offers. This is upsetting and yet as I expected. I am writing this final letter to extend one final olive branch, so to speak.  
Thursday.  
1 AM.  
The graveyard behind the church in Whitechapel.  
This is your last chance at peaceful resolution, leech. See to it that this branch isn't fashioned into a stake.

-Geoffrey McCullum"

"For God sakes Edgar these are from McCullum! How long have you been.. holding.." Having suddenly stood to face where Edgar had last been, the ekon found the space empty.  
Jonathan began pacing back and forth in his adjacent lab. Thursday. That was tonight. He was well acquainted with the chosen graveyard, considering the frequency at which Mr. Nithercott required various tinctures was almost alarming.

Pausing his back and forth movement for a moment, he found himself ruminating on the letter. He looked over to where he'd placed it on the counter and narrowed his eyes.  
It was addressed Dr.Ried.  
McCullum had not once addressed him as anything above subhuman since their paths first crossed.  
Although, it did close on the most common "leech" and of course the charming little death threat.  
Tonight at 12am is Thursday, and there seems little for it but to appear as invited.  
"Hopefully Mr. McCullum will understand my delay. Of course he won't, but one may hope." Jonathan thought while rolling his eyes.  
He turned his attention back to his bed from which he'd been roused early in the first place. It was barely 4 PM and he could practically feel the sun from behind his office walls. Returning, suddenly exhausted, he tossed and turned for a time before sinking into blissfully dreamless oblivion.


	2. Down We Go

Chapter 2

Dusk came all to early for the weary doctor. Were he to hazard a guess in his moral life, he would’ve wagered an immortal would be immune to fatigue born of interrupted sleep just as immortals were immune much all else. He’d of course come to realize however, neither of these assertions were at all accurate.  
His difficulty in finding meaningful rest and his resulting fatigue was affecting his ability to throw himself into his research and this obstacle in turn was making finding rest more difficult. The only aspect of his schedule he could confidently state as a benefit, was instead of his body giving in and finding himself drooling over his notes hours later, he could now go on for days held up in his office pouring over possible cures.  
The catch to this (as there seems to be with all things now,) was that while he was developing what he desperately hoped to be an antivirus, that’s *all* he was doing. Which is to say, of course, not feeding. Not giving into the powerful baser urges. The longer he kept up these periods of isolation, the more the tagteam of sleep deprivation and primal Hunger preyed on his mind. The longest he’d ever managed to pull over to 14 consecutive days. 

At that point he found himself still haunched over his workbench starring at his messy notes, but his mind was fully occupied with the routines and availability of his patients and fellow staff. When he’d cleared the profound fog of the Hunger long enough to recognize his thought process, he all but flung himself out into the sewers, away from his week long post. His at least always vaguely present fangs now extended far in excess of their usually manageable length as the need for blood overrode his penchant for subtlety.  
Thinking back on it, had he found Oswald trapped and vulnerable as he was while the good doctor was embroiled within this veritable self-inflicted frenzy, he couldn’t say for certain the claustrophobic veteran would be alive today. The mere notion of having potentially been so close to further traumatizing the two war scarred survivors was enough to have Jonathan vowing he’d never allow himself to become so starved in pursuit of his research.  
“And so the benefit is outweighed by the cost, yet again.” Dr.Reid sighed to himself, closing the door of his office behind him. 

Out on the makeshift balcony he could see across the river and barely into Whitechapel. The street seemed quiet but he’d made enough trips through the alleys to know that simply wasn’t the case. Between the Skal virus, the actual Spanish flu and the subject of tonight’s visitation; the bloody Guard, the good doctor could hardly make it ten meters without someone trying very hard to disembowel him. And for what, exactly? Daring to administer medication to the ill? For having the sheer unbridled audacity to continue his profession?  
“Pretending to play doctor” Mary had called it. Reid’s face set in a deep scowl. Well, if his freshly immortal soul was consigned to the flames hereafter anyway, he might as well go out defying those around him with kindness. 

Of course, as it seems to be with all things now any altruistic streak he may have is willfully twisted to manipulation in the eyes of his pursuers. The scant few times he’d managed to actually share conversation with the subject of tonight’s trek, the ekon had been grilled over whom he’d visited and by what mesures he’d broken their minds to be allowed entry. In the rare few cases he had gained entry to a home through compulsion, there’d been an distinct lack of alternatives. For Mrs. Gillingham’s case, for example, had he not posed (and continues to do so on subsequent visits) as her deceased grandson he would never been granted access to administer the medication she required. In another case, while it may not of been quite as serious an incentive, had he not convinced Venus to invite him in, he may of never learned of the deadly plot against one of his few remaining friends. That of course is its own saga of uncertainty given Clarence’s new instabilities but that bridge will burn when we get there. Hopefully it’ll be the only thing burning when we get there.

Coming to the corner to the plaza outside the gates of white chapel, Reid sticks to the walls trepidatious of the guard member’s usual routes. He may be intentionally going to hold council with their leader but he has very little faith in word of the meeting having made it down the ladder that far. At the lip of the wall, he pauses. Considering the usually bustling nature of this juncture, the fact Reid was catching little more than the scuttle or rodent paws and far distant chatter was had him remaining just outside the area. Surely even with the tenuous outlines of this meeting McCullum would’ve brought a company with him, would he not? And they’re usually so rowdy even in the rare times they attempt more stealthy approaches.  
Erring on the side of caution, he spies a half broken fire escape hanging off a nearby apartment and uses it as a starting point in a black-shadowed dash to the top of the building. Continuing to hug the various protrusions of the rooftop, he moves to gain a better vantage of the plaza below. With residential chimneys flanking his either side, he peers down.  
Not a soul.  
Oh dear. Was he late? Did he read the letter wrong? It did say 3am did it not?  
He reaches into his coat pocket, producing his reclaimed watch the face reading 3:07. 

“Keeping a gentleman waiting is a sure way to make an enemy, Dr. Reid.”  
Jonathan wheeled around to face the sudden voice. Standing opposite of him, balanced on angled shingles was an ekon he’d met but once in the overly ornamented halls of the Escalon Club.  
“Kept you waiting? You’re not who I was to meet! And to appear behind someone like that, you’re liable to cause injury.”  
“Oh doctor, I’m more than liable.”  
Suddenly dashing forward, the lackey grabs the front of Reid’s collar and forces him backward off the roof.


End file.
